Pizza Night at the Strider Residence
by Cynnominstarr
Summary: Fluff involving Dirk's first meeting with Dave


Dirk dug his nails into the skin of his palm. He watched as the indentations changed from white to bright pink little crescents. With every bump and crack in the road the bus went over, his stomach churned and ached. His mouth was as dry as the fucking Sahara. You could seriously fry an egg on his tongue. It wasn't that he was alone, he'd been alone all of his childhood and he wasn't afraid of rape or assault either. He ran his fingers over his illegally purchased Glock 19, feeling the smooth metal. You could never be too well armed. He wished he could have brought his katana instead, but they really are much harder to keep in a small worn backpack. When he'd gotten the address and gotten bus tickets, he'd only grabbed the essentials: Gun, extra shirt, water, and Cal. He didn't care that Cal was pretty much the dorkiest puppet doll thing in the world, he didn't want to leave him. He'd never leave him to possibly get stolen, especially during a cross-country trip to a city he'd never been to a thousand or so miles from home. Maybe he was a bit scared. Maybe it was the gas station egg salad sandwich he'd eaten a couple hours ago. He rested his head against the dingy bus seat, it felt like a rock, and attempted to close his eyes for a while. He could still feel every drop and dip in the pavement. It couldn't be long now, they'd passed Ontario about an hour ago.

Dirk must have dozed, because a minute later or so it seemed, the bus was stopped and the people were rustling in their seats and chattering on cellphones. He opened his eyes slowly, but the bright orange sunset assaulted his eyes. Fuck. His shades had been knocked off his eyes. He fumbled around and eventually hit them off his head and onto the floor. He swore and bent down to get them, replacing them over his eyes. He could see the bus interior now, but most of the people had already left, leaving him by himself. He grabbed his backpack from the other seat, taking extra care to make sure nothing fell out of the hole that had b been worn in the bottom. His heartbeat seemed to radiate outside his chest. It made him wonder if anyone could hear it's abnormally swift pace. It continued to beat furiously and even ache a little. God, he was nervous. Sadly, he couldn't ignore these feelings, but he sure as hell never changed his poker face nor his stride. He hopped down the stairs and entered the station. The floor needed to be mopped; it probably hadn't been in years judging by the multicolored, mysterious stains which Dirk attempted to avoid stepping on. It was mostly empty, he realized now that not many people take charter buses anymore. Fuck being poor. He checked his watch; it was a half past 6 already. The crumpled piece of paper in his pocket held his destination, but there was no need to look at it again. He'd memorized it on the way there.

"1300 S Figueroa St Los Angeles, CA 90015 penthouse suite"

It had taken a few months to find this particular location sure, but Dirk had his sources. It came at a hefty price too, but he didn't mind eating Ramen. Weeks, months, whatever it took. Dirk was old enough now, 16, the age the letter specified. He had that with him too, in his bag. That, he could recite by heart; he had from a very early age. He'd first discovered it under Cal's hat, folded up with his name on it. It was before he could read, but since then, he learned diligently in order to read it. That letter was what kept his hope; hope when he had to move foster homes right after he'd unpacked, hope when bullies punched him, and when no one noticed that he'd been crying at night or the scares he kept on his arms. That letter was from his father, although he'd come to think of him more as a brother. It made the fact that he'd left to become a movie producer more bearable.

The night he decided to read it for the first time was his 6th birthday; Dirk could remember it as clearly as yesterday. He was in the orphanage. No one remembered it was his birthday, but it didn't matter, he was old enough to realize that no one would remember or care. That day, however, he did have a present. He waited until everyone was asleep and pulled out a flashlight stolen from the cleaning room. He was excited, more so than he'd ever been in his life. The outside read "Dirk" simply in bold letters. He opened it, it was written on lined paper in messy handwriting. It read:

" dirk, i realize by now youre probably old enough to read but not too mature yet so ill keep this short i think you know this by now but you most likely havent been adopted and im sorry its all my fault so ill just tell you i got a girl pregnant and i didnt want to take responsibility we didn't have enough for an abortion or to find an adoption agency that's why you ended up in whatever shit hole youre living in im so sorry for that I want you to find me though when you get older 16 maybe i dont want you to die or get raped or something take a gun and be safe i cant write much more i have an interview with a tv studio in california ollie outie dave strider "

Dirk remembered reading it twice and then again. It was a short letter, but he'd spend hours poring over the words. After about the 7th time, he folded it up and put it away. He lied down and pulled the covers over his head. He wasn't sure why, but the tears streamed down his freckled skin and soaked his blanket. He couldn't sleep that night and all he could think of was that he wasn't wanted. The truth had hurt worse than not knowing. How could that even be a thing? The next morning his eyes were red and swollen, but no one asked. Not even to see if he was sick. That day he began his search to find Dave Strider. He bought every newspaper article, every tabloid with Dave's face. He spent nights awake rehearsing what he would say. He had near perfect records in order to be granted emancipation from the state.

The bus station was only a few blocks away from Dave's penthouse. He remained as nonchalant as possible, trying to blend in. Yup just a normal guy, seeing his famous Bro/Dad. He followed a couple through the door and into the elevator. His palms were starting to sweat. He rubbed them on his grimy jeans.

"What floor do you need?" a man was awaiting a response from Dirk. He looked impatient.

"T-top floor please, sir," Dirk stuttered. Fuck his Texas accent seemed even more apparent out here.

"You're not from around here are you?" Where are you from?"

"Texas, sir" Dirk didn't say anymore, his mouth had filled with cotton and his mind had gone blank. The couple left, which left Dirk to pace around the elevator for a few more floors. The doors opened and he shuffled out. He passed a few doors until finding the correct number. What if he wasn't home? No, Dirk couldn't dwell on this; it was only making his palms sweatier and his throat drier. He knocked on the door, his heart beating extremely fast now, making it hard for him to regain the "cool" façade. Steps. That was a good sign. There were some sounds of cussing and fumbling around the room before the door swung open.

"How much is it again?" Dave asked looking down at his wallet.

""Urmm," Dirk had been waiting for this moment for 10 years, but he honestly couldn't think of what to say.

"Oh shit, you aren't pizza," He chuckled a bit. He was in jeans and a broken record t-shirt, 5-o-clock shadow darkened the features bellow his aviator shades. The boyish features still remained on his face, but were perhaps older looking. His platinum blond hair was messy; he obviously wasn't expecting anyone besides the pizza delivery boy.

"Um, yeah I sorta ain't" It took a minute before realization dawned on Dave. Dirk was almost an exact replica of his father's looks right down to the hair color and posture.

"Holy shit! You're Dirk. It's you," He looked awestruck "Come in!"

Dirk proceeded into the spacious living room. Designer furniture littered the room haphazardly, with no sense of organization. In the corner stood some high-tech DJ equipment and next to it, a stocked mini bar. He noticed a kitchen a little farther on and a hallway leading to some bedrooms. Dave leaded Dirk to a white, expensive-looking couch on top of a red rug. In front of them stood a black granite table which had a glass of yellow liquid. Dirk suspected apple juice.

"It's been a while hasn't it?" Dave began.

"Yeah, you could say that. 16 years is a pretty long while,"

"Look I know it is. I know you're probably pissed, so let me start by saying this. I was only two years older than you are at this very moment when you were born. I was a fucking retard. I myself didn't have a great childhood and I had no clue what to do with you. Absolutely no parental guidance here. That doesn't give any explanation though. I have no excuse and no right to explain or justify what I did. Especially that note. I'm such a douche sometimes. You don't need to forgive me, you can leave if you want," He picked up his drink and took a swig of it, then looked down dissatisfied.

"I forgive you. I can't believe I'm saying this, but coming all this way made me realize that I don't want to be alone. Even if I can. I just don't want to anymore," Dirk could feel the tears welling up in his eyes once more.

"Listen, kid I did really miss you and I tried to find you. I guess I assumed that you'd been adopted or some shit that I'd tell myself. A year ago I found you, but I didn't want to interfere in case you're life was going well. You'd seemed to have friends and I didn't want to screw that up,"

"I didn't but it's ok," Dirk looked down at his clasped hands on his lap.

"Well, who do you think signed your emancipation papers? You forging really sucks kid,"

Dirk scoffed in some ways, he thought he knew this deep down.

"So I've got pizza coming, do you want to watch a movie or something?" Dave gave a half smile and slid closer to Dirk to put his arm around him and pull him close.

"Yeah sounds good," Dirk smiled back and leaned close.


End file.
